Consigned to the tedium of watching young master Tom Rowland play his game of golf again, I moped in the wagon, all windows drawn to shield me from the wind and rain, in a service station's parking area.
Thoughts of many vices began to manifest themselves whilst the hip-flask, warm and inviting, emptied.
“Young Tom”, I thought. For a bit. “Young Tom, with your life ahead of you.”; “Do you ever cry at night, Tom? Do you ever wish the sheer misery of existence would stop, just for a moment?”.
“Do you ever ponder the universe's matter-of-fact nature, late at night, and consider how insignificant we all are in this, Tom? How Mother Nature, cold and insentient, lies dormant whilst her instinctive mood swings are exacted upon us; her subjects?”. “Do you ever yearn for pure truth, pure beauty and pure reason to manifest themselves to you, revealing their secrets?”.....
Upon being roused by a Police Officer, I was appalled to discover that somebody had planted human faeces into my underwear and vomited over myself and the leather seating.
Upon reflection, I decided that the Police have far more important things to deal with; murders to solve, rapists to catch, instead of this incident, which is why I did not report it.
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